Eyes Bleed When The Heart Cannot
by Hannahmayski
Summary: Less than 12 hours post-Fourth Shinobi War, Kiba fails at interacting with civilians. Fortunately, it works out in the end. Pt 3 of Fic Title Meme asks (that keep turning into mini fics) Full summary inside


**Fic Title Meme asks (that keep turning into mini fics so they're on here now too)**

 **Summary: "Have you ever** _ **killed**_ **anyone?" the boy asks, leaning in close and Kiba takes a cautious step backwards.**

 **The boy can't be any older than Kiba, with clean hair and soft hands and gentle eyes. They're the same age, roughly the same height but there is one glaringly obvious difference.**

 **This boy is a civilian and Kiba is a shinobi.**

 **(Less than 12 hours post Fourth Shinobi War, Kiba fails at interacting with civilians, but it works out in the end.)**

* * *

"Have you ever _killed_ anyone?" the boy asks, leaning in close and Kiba takes a cautious step backwards.

The boy can't be any older than Kiba, with clean hair and soft hands and gentle eyes. They're the same age, roughly the same height but there is one glaringly obvious difference.

This boy is a civilian and Kiba is a shinobi.

The boy rocks back and forth on his feet, excitement pouring from him and Kiba finds he has no idea what to say. He tries to think, and his mind comes up with nothing.

Kiba blinks and looks down at the dried blood on his hands. "Yeah," he says in the end because he has, and that is the truth, and that's what the boy asked.

"That's so cool," he says, a grin plastered so brightly across his face.

 _What the fuck?_ Kiba thinks because killing people has never been 'cool' to him, killing people is mission requirements, killing people successfully is just a part of the job.

"Have you ever been _stabbed_?" the boy asks next, and Kiba glances past the boy, waiting for someone to walk by so he can use them as an excuse to run. No one passes. Kiba considers stabbing himself right here if it means getting the boy out of his hair.

Kiba's been back from the frontlines for less than 12 hours. He hasn't had time to change, to shower, to sleep, _anything._ He's _tired._ His head hurts. Yet here he is. Getting harassed by a curious civilian.

"Probably," Kiba answers, rubbing his hand over his eyes and wishing Akamaru would hurry up with Shino and save him.

The boy, if anything, gets more excited, his eyes lighting up like festival lights and Kiba feels tired just watching him.

They'd have to be about the same age, but Kiba feels like he has decades on this boy.

"Do you have any cool scars?" Kiba doesn't look at him, instead looking for something to give him an excuse to bail without looking like a total asshole. He shoves his arm forward, covered in small pink and shiny scars peeking out in between dirty bandages. The scarred results of hastily healed field work.

"Aw man, do they hurt?" the boy looks at them, his hands hover nervously, but they never touch. Kiba remembers hearing civilians reprimand children before ' _we're not supposed to touch shinobi!'_ and normally Kiba wouldn't care, but he's spent the last three days in the middle of a war and having over-excited strangers touch him isn't big on his to-do list at the moment.

People _died._ Neji _died._ There were people from other villagers that Kiba had, against all odds, established some sort of on the fly friendship with. Most of them are _dead_ now.

Kiba just wants to lay down and sleep. Preferably for a year.

"Daichi are you annoying this poor man?" a voice, deep and rough and so sudden that Kiba can't stop his flinch.

A man, middle-aged and sun-weathered gives him a worried look gabbing his son by the shoulders and moving him out of the way. The man interrupts Daichi's scandalised protests of _I would never,_ and shuffles him off to find his mother.

The man rubs the back of his head and extends his hand. "I'm so sorry about Daichi. He has a tendency to… ask whatever comes to his head."

Kiba nods a little numbly and reaches out to shake the man's hand.

The man spares a glance at their hands and Kiba realises that his own hands are a mess. Calloused and scratched. Dirty and rough. The man's hands feel soft compared to Kiba's own.

"Nah, it's alright," Kiba says, waving him off.

The man breaks their handshake and gives Kiba an odd look, lips pressed together, a nervous energy buzzing around him. He pulls a small backpack from his shoulders and shuffles through it pulling out a small bottle of incense.

"My wife is a firm believer that these sorts of things can help stress, sleep and all sorts of things." He holds it out and Kiba finds his brain has stopped trying to figure out what's going on entirely.

The man shakes the bottle slightly in prompting and Kiba reaches slowly to take it. "They say the eyes are a gateway to the soul," the man says, zipping up the bag. "They say the eyes bleed when the heart no longer can. I think you'll get more value out of it than me."

The man gives him a quick incline of the head, a small smile and he wonders off towards his son without looking back.

Kiba looks down at the bottle of incense, thinks of all the people that are dead, thinks of how much every inch of his body aches, of how his head feels like it's stuffed with cotton.

"Thanks," Kiba says softly watching the man's retreating back. Kiba's tired of bleeding anyway.


End file.
